


old world made new

by spyglass



Category: Montmaray Journals - Michelle Cooper
Genre: F/M, Gen, Royalty, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 19:02:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spyglass/pseuds/spyglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the occasion of Sophia FitzOsborne’s twenty sixth birthday, in her own words. Some things have changed, and some things never will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	old world made new

**Author's Note:**

> This is primarily a very belated birthday present for empressearwig. I am also trying to get my feelings out before The FitzOsbornes at War comes along and potentially breaks my heart. I really wanted to capture Sophie’s voice and what makes her so wonderful. I hope I came close.

_23rd October 1946_

I am twenty six years old today, which means that I have now been keeping a journal for exactly ten years. I’m not sure which of the two is the more momentous occasion, but it do find it strange that somehow, I feel exactly the same and completely different from the person I was ten years ago. Aunt Charlotte has been making quite a fuss about the day, although I think she’s rather torn between wanting to host a large ball in my honor and not wanting to draw attention to the fact that I am _yet another year older_ and still unmarried.

Another woman would have given up the hope of any of us making a suitable match, but Aunt Charlotte is not another woman and still she holds out hope. It would have been inappropriate to host events last year, but this year she says that everything is “behind us” and we should all move on with our lives. I’m not sure she’s right, but I am trying. For her, and for all of us. But that didn’t stop me from talking her down from any number of large formal events she wanted to host--in my honor, of course. We settled on a (relatively) small luncheon instead, so at least we can stay at Milford Park for now. Aunt Charlotte has bigger problems on her hands anyway. She’s set on Henry making her debut into society next spring. She says it’s been delayed far too long already. The innate problems with that plan should be apparent.

In the meantime, Aunt Charlotte has spent a significant amount of energy trying to determine what I most want for my birthday without directly asking me. She’s asked everyone else. Well, everyone but Simon as far as I know. I’m glad she hasn’t asked me because I’m not sure what I would tell her if she had. At least this way I can act surprised and no one will be any the wiser. But what _would_ I want if I could have anything?

After a great deal of thought and several attempts to make a list on a spare sheet of paper, I have come up with this: I would like to go home, if only I knew where home was. I would like to see Montmaray again. I would like to see it as it was before, only I know that is not possible and never will be again. It sounds morose as birthday wishes go, but then my previous wishes were for Toby and Simon to return to us safely. Since I got that wish when so many others did not, asking for anything else seems ungrateful. I don’t really want anything else anyway.

In lieu of that, Aunt Charlotte could replace the books I gave to Emily Wilkinson when she and her brother finally returned to their father in London in April. She took all of my Jane Austen novels except Northanger Abbey ( _hah_ ) and Persuasion. It seemed fitting somehow that Persuasion was the other one she left. After all, I’m more of an Anne Elliot than an Elizabeth Bennett no matter how hard I might once have wished otherwise. Except I’m not sure Toby and Henry would take too well to being Elizabeth and Mary Elliot, so maybe I’d better say I’m more Elinor Dashwood. That’s an interesting thought. There may be some truth to that.

I’m being called to breakfast now, and I’d better go before Aunt Charlotte starts to get cross. I’ll write more later. I’m bound to do something embarrassing at the luncheon, so at least I have that to look forward to.

 

_Something_ embarrassing might have been a bit of an understatement, but at least it wasn’t my fault. Well, not exactly. The luncheon wasn’t as much of a production as I thought it might be; it was only us, the Stanley-Rosses, and a few other guests, who were really only invited by Aunt Charlotte to make her latest matchmaking scheme seem a little less obvious. Ever since Charles Stanley-Ross died two years ago, Aunt Charlotte has decided that maybe it wouldn’t be the _worst_ thing if I married Rupert. Oh, she has never said as much out loud--she never would--but it’s clear that’s what she’s thinking. The fact that David and his wife have four daughters and no sons probably doesn’t hurt either.

Lord and Lady Astley seem to be in on it as well. I suppose that they would like some grandchildren who live close by, and since Ant and Julia still haven’t obliged them (and at this point, don’t seem likely to), I’d be as good as anyone in their eyes.

Not that anyone has asked me how I feel about this. Toby does still tease me about it constantly, and I let him because I think it distracts him from the pain in his leg. The first time he did it, I don’t think I had ever been so happy to hear the Wedding March in my life. I think it was the first time he laughed since he returned to Milford Park.

This whole matchmaking business is a terrible bother for Rupert and I. Worse than before, when everyone was telling me I could do better. I suppose being married to Rupert wouldn’t be nearly as bad as being married to any of the other men Aunt Charlotte has had in mind for me. I do like Rupert, and we’ve always been great friends. But still, I’d like to think that something more is out there for me. I’d like to fall in love, and while I could love Rupert in a way, it would be rather like settling. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.

The very idea makes me uncomfortable, although the _idea_ is nothing compared to sitting through a luncheon that has been designed by Aunt Charlotte for the purpose of matching me with a suitable--if by her standards not completely ideal--husband. The war made me lax in this regard. Even Aunt Charlotte had more important things to do over the past few years. But after everything I have seen and done, now that I remember what I’m up against I might have a fighting chance. (It’s not that Aunt Charlotte doesn’t want us to be happy. It’s that we all want different things, Veronica and Henry and I, and none of those things match what Aunt Charlotte wants for us.)

As it was, there was nothing I could do to get out of this luncheon, and it really was preferable to some large formal event at any rate. Things weren’t going _too_ badly. And then suddenly they were.

This is what happened. One of Henry’s friends has a Russell Terrier who just recently had puppies, and Henry wanted to give me one for my birthday. Henry had gone to pick him up early in the morning, before I was up, and she hid him out back because I wasn’t due to open family gifts until the evening, after the Stanley-Rosses (and the other less important guests) had gone home. Everyone else in the family was aware of this, but _no one thought to tell Simon_.

Actually, no one was entirely sure that Simon was going to come until this morning. Well, they could have asked me! I suppose I could have told them myself, but then that would have required an explanation about the letters and they wouldn’t be much of a secret anymore. Everyone else has been so busy with their own lives that they’ve barely noticed Simon’s absence though, so they might not have made anything about the letters at all. Either way, I don’t want to share. Not yet.

So when Simon arrived, no one was expecting him. And more importantly _he_ wasn’t expecting the dog, who had somehow managed to free himself from wherever it was that Henry had decided to keep him. Simon burst through the side door right as we were all entering the dining room, and no one could tell what was trailing behind him at first because it was completely covered with mud. Then Aunt Charlotte cried out--he was trailing mud _everywhere_ \--and Henry just casually said, “Oh, that must be George.” As though it were completely expected.

Someone had to do something before Aunt Charlotte went into fits, so before I could think about it, I ran after him. George, that is. Simon did the same, while Veronica kept Aunt Charlotte standing upright. I caught up with George just before Simon did, then proceeded to pick up the dog and knock Simon over all at once. We toppled into a heap on the floor, getting mud everywhere but at least we finally had George under control.

I had imagined the next time I saw Simon, I would be poised and elegant, and my hair would not be falling in my face. I most certainly would not have mud all over my dress. And I was, for less than a minute before I tripped over him in front of Lord and Lady Astley, and Rupert and everyone else! I don’t remember suffering this much public embarrassment since my first debutante balls. Simon brushed the whole thing off though. He quickly got to his feet and held out a hand to help me up. I declined, trying to salvage the last shreds of my dignity, but he grabbed hold of my arm to steady me when I almost lost hold of George again.

“Happy birthday, Sophia,” Simon whispered, unable to keep the amusement from his expression. I’m sure I was a sight to behold, although I wouldn’t know as I avoided all mirrors until I had the opportunity to change out of my dress.

So as I said, it wasn’t _entirely_ my fault. I’d say at least a portion of the blame lies with Henry. The next time she wants a dog, she can get it as a gift for _herself_.

 

I excused myself to clean myself off, and after that the rest of the day passed without major incident, other than a few well-placed and not particularly subtle references to my future marriage to Rupert. The Stanley-Rosses and the other guests left in the late afternoon, and afterwards I received gifts from the family.

Henry gave me George, of course, although I really think I’m going to need to come up with a different name for him. George does not suit. In keeping with tradition, Toby gave me a new journal--a nice one, leather bound with the FitzOsborne family crest on it, like our mother’s old journal. Aunt Charlotte, who had not quite recovered from the shock of having mud trailed through her beautiful dining room, gave me two new suits. And in an act of unity so rarely displayed by Veronica and Simon, they replaced my books! It had been Simon’s idea. Veronica said that he noticed some books missing from the bookshelves when he was here in July but did not have time to replace them for me, so she took care of everything. It was more than I could have hoped for, considering the birthdays of the past few years. Aside from the earlier incident with George and the mud, it was a nearly perfect day.

 

 

_24th October, 1946_

Oh! I don’t quite know what to say. Last night something happened, and I couldn’t write about it right away. My thoughts were too jumbled. They still are, but I need to write everything down now before I forget any of it. And I want to remember it precisely as it happened!

Last night I was sitting in the library long after I thought everyone else had gone to sleep. I wanted to enjoy my new books (or new copies of _old_ books) and assumed I would not be disturbed. Toby is the only other person who might be awake so late at night, and I might faint from shock if he ever visits the library voluntarily! I had not made it far into _Sense & Sensibility_, as inspired by my earlier musings, before I was so engrossed that I did not notice I was not alone.

“Mind if I join you?” Simon said. He was carrying a bottle of red wine and two glasses with him, and when he hovered in the shadows by the door, he seemed so much older than he had in the afternoon. I was suddenly extremely glad I had not yet changed into my nightclothes.

“Of course not,” I said as I closed my book. “I didn’t know anyone else was still awake.”

“I didn’t either.” Simon shrugged and sat down in the chair opposite me. He seemed tense for a moment, but he relaxed as he poured the wine. He must have been studying, though why he insists on keeping that a secret from everyone still is beyond me. “But when I saw the light on in here, I suspect it might be you.”

I sipped my wine gratefully and settled back in the chair, tucking my legs underneath me in a _most_ unladylike fashion. Aunt Charlotte would have been horrified, but Simon seemed to take no notice. He was distracted.

“Simon--” I prompted. He had finished his drink already, over half a glass ahead of me.

“Where’s George?” he teased.

“With Henry.” I wanted to roll my eyes, but when I looked at Simon we couldn’t help but laugh. It _was_ rather funny in hindsight.

“Your aunt didn’t object to that?”

“The damage was already done,” I said. “Aunt Charlotte assumes it can’t get any worse. I think she was just glad my dress is the only thing that seems to be permanently ruined.”

“That’s a shame,” said Simon. “All that trouble you must have gone through because Rupert was coming.”

“Don’t you start too!” I insisted, and in my indignation, I might have finished the last of my wine a little quickly. “I got worse from Toby this morning. I haven’t the slightest idea why everyone is still _stuck_ on this idea that Rupert and I are going to get married!”

“Even your aunt has come to terms with the idea,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. He frowned, his expression unreadable. “I still think you could do better, though.”

I scowled at him in response. “If you are about to give me some _brotherly advice_ . . .”

“I wasn’t.” 

“If you’re _certain_ ,” I pressed.

“I am.” He wasn’t teasing me anymore. “I _do_ think you could do better, but it’s not out of brotherly concern.”

I felt myself shiver, not entirely certain what he meant by that. He seemed to be sure though, in that same self-assured manner that I see so often in Veronica, 

“You’re the only person still telling me that I can do better,” I said impulsively. (I was starting to feel the wine go to my head at this point. I must have been.)

“You mean I’m the only person still willing to tell you the truth.”

“Everyone else seems to think it’s the best I can do at this point.” I added. “After all, I _am_ twenty six now. I made my debut nearly ten years ago!”

Simon’s cocked his head and put his glass down. “That hardly means anything, Sophia. I hope you know that. That’s why it’s so important that someone tells you the truth.”

“All the same, I wish you wouldn’t say that I can do better than Rupert. It’s unfair to him, and there’s nothing _wrong_ with him. I just don’t love him!”

“Well I should hope not,” Simon said emphatically, though I detected (or maybe _hoped_ ) I saw something of relief in his expression. Just for a moment. “Otherwise I’ve been making a terrible mess of things.” He became quiet for a minute and I sipped my wine slowly, trying to quiet a sudden rush of nerves. Then without warning, he changed the subject. “I’ve been wondering. When are you going to publish something under your real name?”

“I’m sorry . . .” I sputtered, and I knew I was blushing furiously. (With the wine, I had no hope of hiding it.) He couldn’t know my secret, _could he_? Still, I tried to recover, “I don’t know what you mean, Simon.”

“You know _exactly_ what I mean,” he said. And I knew from the way he looked at me that he was not fooled by my protests. “Your _nom de plume_ was completely transparent. I wonder at how none of the others have figured out your secret.”

I blushed harder still. “They have been distracted,” I explained. “Busy.” But of course, Simon had been busy too, and that had not stopped him from uncovering the truth.

“You write well, Sophia,” Simon said quietly. “I always knew you would. I look forward to reading your column every week. It’s different from receiving your letters, but it’s still _you_ and I like hearing from you.”

“It started not long after you and Toby left,” I explained. I knew I didn’t have to. Simon wouldn’t ask questions, but I found I wanted to tell someone. Sharing secrets is almost as exciting as keeping them, so long as you choose your moments. “No matter what we did, it never felt like enough. I wanted to do something that was _mine_ , so when we were in London, I told everyone I was going to the library but I went to _The Times_ office instead.”

“And convinced them on the spot, I’ll bet,” Simon interrupted.

Remembering my triumph, I grinned. “I can be quite persuasive when I set my mind to something.”

“Don’t I know it,” he said, chuckling. “That’s what, six years in _The Times_ , right under your aunt’s nose, and no one has noticed a thing? You must be pleased with yourself, Machiavelli.”

“I am.”

“You won’t remember this, but a long time ago I told you that Toby had hidden depths.” Simon sat forward in his chair, leaning closer to me, suddenly serious again. “It appears to be somewhat of a family trait. You surprise me, Sophia. You are always surprising me.”

“Oh, but I do remember.”

“You . . . you do?”

“Oh yes, of course I do. That night in Lyon, when we were running from Gebhardt and you thought I was too drunk to remember. I might have been a little drunk, but I wrote it all down in my journal, just like you said. Maybe I’ll show you sometime.” I grinned in what I hope was a mischievous manner. I can’t be quite sure because of the wine. “Maybe I won’t.”

He didn’t seem to know what to say to that. Veronica would have been proud.

Emboldened by my success, I asked, “Why do you care so much about what happens with Rupert anyway?”

Simon took my hand in his and said, “For such an astute observer of human nature, I should think that would be fairly clear.”

“I didn’t want to be wrong,” I said, hoping he couldn’t feel my pulse skip. “Not about this.”

“You could do better than me too, you know.”

“I could do worse,” I said lightly. “And I’m not sure I _want_ to do better. That has to count for something, right?”

“It does,” he agreed, and before I knew what was happening, he kissed me. It wasn’t wet or awkward or even uncomfortable, as it had been with the others (all two of them, though I don’t have any intention of telling Simon _that_ ). It wasn’t until after it was over that I felt flustered and self conscious, the heady intoxication of wine replaced with something else entirely.

“Simon . . .” I said.

“Yes?” he asked, his hand still holding mine though the kiss had ended.

“I . . . I don’t know.”

Then he started laughing, and before I knew it, I was laughing with him. “You don’t know?” he said, still laughing, “I thought I’d never live to see the day.”

“I suppose it was going to happen eventually,” I pouted.

“Oh, Sophie,” he said, kissing the back of my hand. “That must be a sign. We should both return to our rooms before someone else starts wandering the halls.” I smiled at him, and he smiled back. It made him look younger, and I could remember him as when we were children. I think, even if I had the chance to go back, I wouldn’t.

“I’ll see you in the morning, Sophia,” he whispered. “We’ll figure this all out then.”

And because he kept hold of my hand the entire time, I believed him.

 

It was not easy to fall asleep after leaving him with one more kiss in the hallway. Love is a strange and exciting phenomenon, and I admit that in spite of years of feeling _something_ for Simon Chester, and renewing those feelings more seriously in the past year and a half, I never quite expected for it to feel like this. Veronica and Toby have both told me about it, but their experiences did nothing to prepare me. I suppose that makes sense, though, that we all feel love in our own way.

I believe Toby enjoys heartbreak every bit as much as he enjoys love, and he chooses his romances accordingly. Veronica falls in and out of love, and stays true only to ideals. My problem is that even when I wanted to, I could never imagine anyone else.

And though my life has changed irrevocably since I was sixteen, my thoughts from last night ring true even this morning. If I had the chance to go back, I wouldn’t.


End file.
